“What man?”
“The one who led you into this?”
“Did I ...” She was suddenly confused, surprised by an unexpected thought. “No. I didn’t love him.”
“That’s good.”
“Have you ... ever ...” She began a question and found that she could not finish it.
“They say I have no feeling for anyone but myself,” he answered, “and not much of that.”
“Who said it?”
“A person that didn’t like me. I know many people that don’t like me.”
“That’s good.”
“But I’ve never known one who said it was good.”
“Yes, you’ve known one.”
“And can you tell me who that is?”
“Yourself.”
He bent toward her again, his eyes searching the darkness, then moved away and shrugged: “You’re wrong. I’m nothing like what I think you think I am. I’ve always wanted to be a Soviet clerk who sells soap and smiles at the customers.”
She said: “You’re so very unhappy.”
His face was so close she could feel his breath on her lips. “Who asked you for sympathy? I suppose you think you can make me like you? Well, don’t fool yourself. I don’t give a damn what I think of you and less what you think of me. I’m just like any other man you’ve had in your bed — and like any you will have.”
She said: “You mean you would like to be like any other man. And you would like to think that there haven’t been any other men — in my bed.”
He looked at her silently. He asked abruptly: “Are you a ... street woman?”
She answered calmly: “No.”
He jumped to his feet. “Who are you, then?”
“Sit down.”
“Answer.”
“I’m a respectable little girl who studies at the Technological Institute, whose parents would throw her out of the house if they knew she had talked to a strange man on the street.”
He looked down at her; she sat on the steps at his feet, looking up at his face. He saw no fear and no appeal in her eyes, only an insolent calm. He asked: “Why did you do it?”
“I wanted to know you.”
“Why?”
“I liked your face.”
“You little fool! If I were someone else, I might have ... acted differently.”
“But I knew you were not someone else.”
“Don’t you know that such things are not being done?”
“I don’t care.”
He smiled suddenly. He asked: “Want a confession from me?”
“Yes.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever tried to ... to buy a woman.”
“Why did you try it tonight?”
“I didn’t care. I’ve walked for hours. There isn’t a house in this city that I can enter tonight.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask questions. I couldn’t make myself approach one of ... of those women. But you — I liked your strange smile. What were you doing on such a street at such an hour?”
“I quarreled with someone and I had no carfare and I went home alone — and lost my way.”
“Well, thank you for a most unusual evening. This will be a rare memory to take with me of my last night in the city.”
“Your — last night?”
“I’m going away at dawn.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Never — I hope.”
She got up slowly. She stood facing him. She asked: “Who are you?”
“Even if I trust you, I can’t tell you that.”
“I can’t let you go away forever.”
“Well, I would like to see you again. I’m not going far. I may be back in town.”
“I’ll give you my address.”
“Don’t. You’re not living alone. I can’t enter anyone’s house.”
“Can I come to yours?”
“I haven’t any.”
“But then....”
“Let’s say that we’ll meet here again — in a month. Then, if I’m still alive, if I can still enter the city, I’ll be waiting here for you.”
“I’ll come.”
“November tenth. But let’s make it in daylight. At three o’clock in the afternoon. On these steps.”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s as crazy as our whole acquaintance. And now it’s time for you to go home. You shouldn’t be out at this hour.”
“But where will you go?”
“I’ll walk until dawn. It’s only a few more hours. Come on.”
She did not argue. He took her arm. She followed. They stepped over the bowed lances of the broken fence. The street was deserted. A cab driver on a distant corner raised his head at the sound of their steps. He signaled the cab. Four horseshoes struck forward, shattering the silence.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Leo. And yours?”
“Kira.”
The cab approached. He handed the driver a bill. “Tell him where you want to go,” he said.
“Good-bye,” said Kira, “ — for a month.”
“If I’m still alive,” he answered, “ — and if I don’t forget.”
She climbed to the seat, kneeling and facing the back of the carriage. As it slowly started away, her hatless hair in the wind, she watched the man who stood looking after her.
When the cab turned a corner, she remained kneeling, but her head dropped. Her hand lay on the seat, helpless, palm up; and she could feel the blood beating in her fingers.
V
GALINA PETROVNA MOANED, EVERY MORNING: “WHAT’S THE matter with you, Kira? You don’t care if you eat or not. You don’t care if you’re cold. You don’t hear when people talk to you. What’s the matter?”
In the evenings, Kira walked home from the Institute, and her eyes followed every tall figure, peering anxiously behind every raised collar, her breath stopping. She did not expect to find him in the city; she did not want to find him. She never worried whether he would come or not. She never wondered whether he liked her. She never had any thought of him beyond the one that he existed. But she found it hard to remember the existence of anything else.
Once, when she came home, the door was opened by Galina Petrovna with red, swollen eyes. “Have you got the bread?” was the first question thrown into the cold draft of the open door.
“What bread?” asked Kira.
“What bread? Your bread! The Institute bread! This is the day you get it! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it!”
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“Oh, my Lord in Heaven!”
Galina Petrovna sat down heavily and her hands fell helplessly. “Kira, what’s the matter with you? She gets rations that aren’t enough to feed a cat and she forgets them! No bread! Oh, Lord merciful!”
In the dark dining room, Lydia sat at the window, knitting a woolen stocking by the light of the street lamp outside. Alexander Dimitrievitch drowsed, his head on the table.
“No bread,” announced Galina Petrovna. “Her highness forgot it.”
Lydia sneered. Alexander Dimitrievitch sighed and got up. “I’m going to bed,” he muttered. “You don’t feel so hungry when you sleep.”
“No dinner tonight. No millet left. The water pipes broke. No water in the house.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Kira.
“You’re the only one in the family with a bread card. But, Lord, you don’t seem to think anything of it!”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I’ll get it tomorrow.”
Kira lighted the wick. Lydia moved her knitting toward the little flame.
“Your father hasn’t sold a single thing today in that store of his,” said Galina Petrovna.
Lydia’s needles clicked in the silence.
The door bell rang sharply, insistently. Galina Petrovna shuddered nervously and hurried to open the door.